


the start of beginning

by AK_AKA_CB



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 02:48:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13137498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AK_AKA_CB/pseuds/AK_AKA_CB
Summary: Miles wants revenge; or at least, he thinks he does. So he goes to find Waylon, who's been split up from his family and hiding from Murkoff. Of course, things never go according to plan.





	the start of beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cannibal_Wings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cannibal_Wings/gifts).



> My Outlast Secret Santa (2017) gift for Tien (lordtye on Tumblr) who asked for fanfiction of Miles/Waylon, Miles, or Miles and the Walrider.

Dead men don’t eat; dead men don’t _need_ to eat.

Then why, why in God’s (if one even existed) name had the crappy, over-processed McDonalds garbage he scarfed down tasted like heaven? 

Miles shoved the rest of the hamburger in his mouth and swallowed hard to get it all down. He was damn lucky to be alive, damn lucky to be breathing, and yet, instead of living it up on some yacht in the Bahamas or picnicking in some vineyard in Europe, his sorry ass was seated on cold hard plastic that probably had trace amounts of urine from which ever kid had scrambled onto it last. 

‘ _Not that I haven’t had worse_ ,’ Miles contemplated. 

Speaking of worse, Miles figured he had about another four solid hours before reemerging himself into post-asylum hell, as he called it. Managing to escape Mount Massive Asylum alive was one thing; dealing with the aftermath was a whole other ball game. 

‘ _Except this ballgame has dead people, and extortion_.’ 

Yeah, okay, maybe he didn't care enough about sports to pinpoint the exact differences, point is, escaping Murkoff’s clutches sure as hell didn't end when he stepped out the door. 

‘ _Or levitated?_ ’ 

Miles wasn’t one-hundred percent clear on what happened after Wernicke and his elite team of Call Of Duty characters corned him in the hall. All he knew was: he was alive, he escaped unseen, and he was now the host of some sort of science fiction level biological weapon. 

‘ _Just like every kid dreams of growing up to be. Christ_ ,’ Miles crumpled the tissue paper absentmindedly. 

“And now we’re getting answers,” he spoke more to himself than the nano-swarm around him. It wasn’t as if he even had to say it aloud, the Walrider, could hear his thoughts, and _was_  his thoughts. He could still hear the old bastard scientist’s words: 

_“Gott in himmel. You have become the host.”_

He glared at the practically invisible being beside him. 

“Some God you are,” Miles scoffed.

For the most part, the Walrider left him alone. Besides healing his bullet wounds and…  _disposing_  of Wernicke and his team, the being hadn’t communicated with Miles. Sure, Miles had tried communicating with it, but to no avail. If the thing was linked to his brain, shouldn’t he be able to know its thoughts? Just like how the Walrider knew his? 

The entire thing was a massive headache. Miles would probably have been better off had he taken the time to snoop around a little longer at Mount Massive. He intended to, honest he did. But something changed inside of him then and there. Something evil, something vulgar; something, perhaps, he didn't want explained. 

At the very least, he hadn’t lost his camera. He desperately didn't want to leave it behind, especially when it could trace him back to the scene of the crime, or better yet, bring the crime back to him. Miles _needed_ that camera; it had unsurmountable data dictating the horror of Mount Massive, the true wretchedness behind Murkoff, the corporation he had been trying to bring down for years. All he knew was that camera was his only salvation this mess had to offer. Thankfully, the Walrider seemed to understand it too. 

At least, Miles assumed it did. There he was, mentally praying for his camera’s safe return and-  _voila!_  There it was, gently dropped into the palm of his hand. Sure, the thing was cracked and had most certainly run out of battery at this point, but the files inside had to be intact; Miles prayed, actually prayed, despite everything he had just witnessed, that they were. 

And now, they were here- in some shitty roadside McDonalds, on a trip to the middle of nowhere. 

Because while Miles had managed to haul his ass home to D.C. before scattering with his few important possession in tow, some lucky bastard not only also managed to survive the horrors of Mount Massive, but also broadcasted his recorded evidence to the whole world as retribution. Apparently, whoever this dude was, he had an uncanny ability for one-upping him. Miles would have been proud, had the name of said whistleblower not unlocked a sudden realization.  

‘ _Waylon Park_.’

Waylon Park, the guy who emailed him; Waylon Park the guy who invited him inside of the slaughterhouse; Waylon Park the only goddamn reason he was at Mount Massive in the first place. 

‘ _That son of a bitch_.’

At first, Miles wanted revenge. He wanted to rip this guy limb from limb, maybe take a couple of his fingers off like Trager did to him; show this guy  _exactly_  what kinda hell his email put him though. 

That’s when the static started again; the very same static Miles heard fading out after waking up outside the asylum. Unfortunately, Miles realized too late, what that static meant. 

A week later, he found himself shivering on the side on some highway road; his clothes tattered, and stained, his hands caked in blood. He had to make it back to town on his own two feet. Of course the Walrider was nowhere to be found.

‘ _The selfish bastard_.’ Miles was livid. Using whatever small amount of cash he had stashed in his pocket, he managed to pay for one night at some shoddy hotel, and scrubbed himself clean before getting to work on his clothes. 

The process was… methodical, soothing almost. If he unfocused his eyes, he could pretend the warm water was his faucet at home, and that the caked layer of blood was actually just dried dirt. He wasn’t on the run with a demon running rampant in his brain, he was safe, he was home and things were okay. Things, as it turned out, couldn’t be farther from the truth. 

He heard about it on the radio, sometime in the early morning, the sudden presence of the nano-swarm waking him from his slumber. Some CIA agents or FBI agents or Wildness Protection (it didn't matter really) had been ripped apart by some “wild animal” along a secluded stretch of road. Of course, that was only the preliminary findings, and there was “no cause for alarm” according to the local authorities. It would seem the police didn't want the general populace fearing bear attacks. 

They were right, well, to a degree anyway. There _wasn’t_ any cause for alarm; because there were no malevolent bears, Miles could see it. He wished he couldn’t, be he just could. No bear would have made a scene like that… but the _Walrider_ could. 

The Walrider _did_.

Miles considered himself damn lucky to remember where he left all his crap before blacking out. It wasn't much, just a laptop, a couple of flash drives, and some clothes. No phone of course, he couldn't risk being tracked. And he never connected the laptop to any Wi-Fi, he couldn't leave any traces. 

He was 'dead' after all. And dead men didn't make phone calls. Dead men had nothing to say, no one to talk to. 

Dead men didn't _need_ to talk. 

* * *

 

Waylon Park was very much alive. 

A fact that, didn't escape him, even though, sometimes, he wished it would. 

Naturally, as someone with a beating heart, he was prone to acting in various ways to ensure his own survival.

' _That's why I can't be with them.'  
_

Waylon repeated the phrase like it was mantra, and in a way, it was. Just like how returning home to his wife and kids was his gospel inside the asylum, staying as far away from them as he could was his current saving grace; it was _their_ saving grace. 

He knew he shouldn't feel sorry for himself; that he was supposed to feel grateful; but how could he? He went through hell, was the only one to survive, and the bad guys got away with it anyway. They had one minor PR problem, and what did he get? A lifetime of loneliness and a bum leg. It didn't seem worth it; it didn't seem _fair_. 

He released his footage! He showed the world! _And nobody listened!_

Murkoff destroyed him the first chance they got. In one foul swoop, Waylon lost his credibility, his job, his family, _their_ freedom… 

' _God, Lisa… I'm so sorry_.'

Truth was, Waylon felt sorry. He had every damn reason to; but not for himself, no. His sorrow wasn't intended for himself; rather, it was a vigil for his family, for all they'd been forced to sacrifice. 

It was only days later (it had felt like only the first free minutes of his life) when the Park family was given new identities, and forced into hiding. 

All those dreams, the ones Waylon had, the ones he and Lisa had together, for their kids, for their _kids'_ future, for their _own_ future... Waylon saw himself at his sons’ graduations, at their weddings…

Now, it was just _gone_. 

_They_ were gone. 

_He_ was gone. 

Waylon Park was alive, even if he wished he wasn't. 

* * *

 

At first, when Waylon was told he’d be relocated, he had an afterthought, well, more of a half wish really, that they'd put him somewhere nice, maybe California or Spain. Somewhere where the weather was warm, and where the sun was out (his therapist told him the sun would help alleviate some symptoms of his depression) so then at the very least, he would have a daily thing to look forward to. Of course, it wasn't to be. 

Canada.

They stuck his ass in freezing, moose-filled, middle-of-fucking-nowhere Canada. Of all the places, why _there_? 

Waylon _hated_ the cold; he hated the snow. He used to love playing in the snow with his boys, building snowmen, going sledding. That was before, _before_ … 

It was cold when the riot started. Maybe it wasn't actually all that freezing, but his uniform was soaked with sweat and blood (some of which was his, but most of which wasn’t) and he didn't have any shoes, so to him, the place was an artic tundra.

On the other hand, the cold had been a welcomed feeling; it meant he was still alive. Pain meant feeling, feeling meant blood flow; blood flow meant his heart hadn't stopped yet. 

It was a waking nightmare. 

How messed up was it for Waylon to have welcomed the feeling of burning on his feet? What had that place done to his mind for his momentary past salvation to exist as his eternal prison now? 

The place itself wasn’t bad; it was quaint, sort of cottage like. It would have almost been homey, had he not been alone and only there because he was hiding from a highly powered corporation who wanted him dead. 

It was an old vacation cabin, they told him. A decent enough place, with plumbing. When they said that as if it was some holy grail bonus, Waylon's heart sunk into his stomach. 

There he was, half-dreaming of living the rest of his days in a sunny tourist trap, when he was damn lucky if his hiding place happened to have a working toilet. 

On his worst days, it felt like he was right back there at Mount Massive, with the cold and the crudeness of it all. But then, Waylon would reach down to feel the cool metal attached to his leg, and he was anchored back to reality. 

Apparently his little horror story cabin in the woods was once part of a larger collection of structures, part of a larger resort. Majority of the buildings had been leveled in exchange for a larger main resort building. The idea of 'roughing it' didn't appeal to as many vacationers as the company had originally thought. 

Lucky for Waylon, the few buildings they did leave were still connected to water and gas lines. The people who put him up there must've worked out some sort of deal with the resort to cover those extra expenses and keep the whole operation on the down low. 

Still, it was lonely as hell. If Waylon was being honest though, even in the short time he had with his family before going into hiding he still felt isolated; finally around the people who loved him, the people he had fought tooth and nail to survive for, and he couldn’t feel more alone. It was just that no one understood what he went through, the horrors he saw. Sure, there was the footage, but it didn't begin to tell half the story. That place, that monster-making factory, had seen into his soul, his heart, and _tainted_ it somehow.

Waylon wasn’t certain how, nor did he truly want to find out, but there was a change in him; Lisa had seen it too. Waylon was there, and yet, he wasn’t. He supposed he left whatever redeemable qualities and parts of himself back inside the bloodied walls of Mount Massive.

He supposed there was no going back.

* * *

 

Miles was fucking freezing.

Okay, so, even though he was presumed dead, and technically no longer alive, he couldn’t help it, the cold fucking hurt.

The former journalist had been perched outside of some rundown cabin located in the Canadian wilderness, just miles over the border; according to his other half’s sources, this was the location of the infamous Waylon Park, former Murkoff employee and whistleblower.

If Miles was being honest, from what he could tell, the guy didn't look like much. Scruffy hair, average build… he looked like the definition of IT; scrawny, nerdy, and unintimidating.

‘ _Is this really the same asshole?_ ’ Miles furiously rubbed his arms, trying to generate some warmth as the Walrider stared at him incredulously.

“What?” Miles spat. “So, I’m cold, okay? Why don’t you go make yourself useful and actually do something about it?”

The Walrider tilted his head at Miles, looked towards the cabin, then back at Miles again.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Go,” Miles shooed.

Which, as it turned out, was the _worst_ possible thing to say.

In a blink of an eye, the nano-swarm took off in the direction of Park’s cabin.

“What are you-? Wait! Fuck,” Miles swore as he ran after the damn thing, pushing aside all rational thought, as he collided with what had to be the front entrance. Or, at least, he would have collided with the front entrance, had a certain whistleblower not opened it seconds earlier screaming bloody murder.

“Ahh!”

‘ _Oof!_ ’

The two collided head on; Miles having weighed more, ending up forcing Waylon down backwards, only to loose his own footing and come crashing down on top of the smaller male.

‘ _Christ, this guy’s a lightweight._ ’ Miles couldn’t help but notice as he sacked the guy. ‘ _At least this speeds things up a bit._ ’

Waylon’s scream was cut-off as the wind was knocked out of him, his head landing hard against the wooden floor. He had just seen the Walrider, the _thing_ , the ghost of Mount Massive, and it was coming right for him. It couldn’t be, and yet, it was. So of course, Waylon immediately began to haul ass the hell outta dodge, when he collided dead center with some stranger standing outside of his door.

‘ _They’re here, they’re here. They’re gonna kill me, they’re gonna kill me…_ ’ Waylon’s mind was racing almost as fast as his heart, and he was certain he was having a heart attack.

He had to move, had to run, but he couldn’t. The stranger pinned his arms against the floor, the Walrider had to be right on him by now… it was over.

‘ _God, Lisa, I’m so sorry…_ ’

“Oh, you’re _sorry_?” The stranger snarled.

‘ _Fuck_.’ Waylon must have said that out-loud.

“Please,” he whimpered, “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, I h-have a family… I have k-kids. _Please_!” Waylon did what he could to shrivel up into a ball. With the other man on-top of him, all he really managed to do was squirm and appear even more pathetic.

‘ _Shit,_ ’ Miles froze.

Of course he knew the guy had a family, hell, he even knew where they were located as of now, something this shit-head probably didn't. It didn't matter, this guy’s family was probably better off with him dead, truly dead, not in hiding like a coward.

Miles looked up at the Walrider, before opting to do the deed with his own hands. Removing his hands from Park’s wrists, he used them to grip tightly around his throat. Waylon tried to pull them off, but he was no match for Miles’ strength.

Miles barred down with all his weight, trying to just _end_ it already, _come on_! Why wasn’t it working…?

‘ _Oh,_ ’ Miles glanced down at his fingers. ‘ _That’s why._ ’

Trager took those from him; that damn place took those from him, just like it took the lives and countless bodies of others. All those patients, all those people, who were more cancer and scar tissue than human by the time he found them… Murkoff stole away their freedom, their sanity, their quality of life; Murkoff was in the business of stealing souls. And here he was, Miles Upshur, mutilated hands wrapped tight around the throat of the one guy who had the nerve to stand up to Murkoff, who managed to hold on to his own humanity long enough to fight back.

‘ _I can’t do it_ ,’ Miles shoulders slumped, his hands falling past the whistleblower’s throat, onto the cold floor. ‘ _Goddamnit!_ ’

Waylon immediately began gasping for air, doing his best to shield his windpipe from any further attacks.

“W-who are you?” Waylon’s voice was raspy from the lack of air. “Murkoff?”

The stranger who was still straddled on top of him just laughed.

Waylon took the opportunity to scramble out from under the maniac, crab walking backwards up to the back of his only sofa. Whoever the hell this guy was, he seemed kind of… _off_.  

“No kid,” the stranger spoke suddenly, as if he needed the time to come up with a reasonable answer. “I’m not Murkoff.”

Waylon grew even more confused.

“Then who are you?”

The stranger sank back on his knees, getting into a somewhat upright position. And he smiled, a sort of satisfied smirk.

“The name’s Miles Upshur, and I’m their worst nightmare.”

**Author's Note:**

> I definitely plan on expanding on this concept in the future. 
> 
> I know it's on the shorter side, but I hope you enjoyed nonetheless!
> 
> As always, comments, critiques, and reviews are appreciated. 
> 
> Happy Holidays!


End file.
